Scenes from a war machine
by solussword
Summary: A collection of one shots, unconnected bits and pieces from the Locust war. Not necessarily cannon.
1. Artemi

**A/n: I was reading some fanfiction that really got me going, and this one shot popped right into my head. I'm hoping to add some others to this as well, so give me some feed back about what you think!**

His head throbbed to the beat of his soul, adrenaline coursing through every vein in his body as he sat down on a cliff face overlooking a massive cavern, a sweeping vista of potential horror and destruction meeting his thousand-yard-stare.

There were hundreds of locust marching in a congealed mass across the tunnel, trying to scrape by without spearing each other on their deadly weapons. Theron guards snapped at any drone getting within a two feet radius, boomers tried to delicately skip over tickers. The cave rumbled with thousands of feet stomping without rhythm, dust and the occasional stalagmite falling down from the ceiling hundreds of meters up.

They were headed somewhere, and Epsilon squad had been tasked to reconnoiter the massive troop movement and report back.

Artemi Miller, guerilla and demolitions expert, was a corporal in Epsilon squad. Or had been, anyway.

He grabbed his standard issue longshot and propped it on his knee, taking in the locust horde. Next to him lay three remote detonators, a piece of glossy paper, and a revolver with a single shot.

He remembered his teammates, vaguely. The second they saw the waves of grunts with enough firepower to overtake Jacinto, they'd ran back to the centaur and radio'd what passed for headquarters, screaming incoherent babble at the massive amount of troops traveling in the natural caves. From there on it got hard to remember.

He remembered his family vividly.

Little Cissy, with brown hair and scabbed knees, always ready for a fight, and his wife, that beautiful, amazing grease-stained goddess, managing to look breath-taking in a pair of overalls and a grin.

He remembered E-day, and the slaughter it brought.

He lifted the picture reverently, kissed the two people in it, and tucked it into his armor. He picked up the detonators, and placed them in a row next to his feet.

He hadn't run like the other gears. He was done with running. There was nothing for him to protect anymore. No Cissy, no mechanical maiden. So he jacked the explosives from the centaur while the mechanic was busy berating the squad leader for handling his baby the wrong way, tucked and rolled, then set up shop. Epsilon wasn't that tight—if someone wanted to go kill themselves, who were they to stop him?

He lifted one of the detonators, practically weightless in his hand, thought about his wife and daughter on last time, and pressed the trigger. A row of troops were instantly incinerated, limbs flying. The cavern rocked, pieces of the ceiling fell, and Artemi's ears bled from the concussive blast of centaur shells in an enclosed space.

He tossed the now-useless button down the cliff face, and picked up the second, and repeated the process. Micro-explosions caused by faulty Locust equipment caused a few more casualties than he expected, and he watched in glee as drones scattered and exploded from friendly missiles.

He started laughing. At first he thought he was having a seizure of some sort, but once he regained a little bit of hearing he understood. His grief had taken control of his body, and he was letting it, giving back the locust as much pain as he had felt during the entire war. His hands to tossed the second detonator down with the first, and then picked up the third. His mouth started yelling. "Fish in a barrel, honey!" He said, cackling. "Fish in a goddamn big barrel!"

The third detonation caused cracks to emerge from the ceiling, racing across the entire cavern and spreading even more dust on the enraged locust. There was a crack, and the then a sound like a million groaning old men filled the air.

Artemi never had to use his longshot. The fissures spread quicker than fire on oil, and soon parts of the ceiling were falling. Bits fell, then larger pieces, then giant chunks of earth's crust broke off and fell, fell, fell onto the locust, until the entire army was crushed under the earth.

Artemi's cog tag never saw the light. The pictures of the garage goddess and her daughter were never excavated. He lay there permanently, with the family he loved in his pocket and the army he tried to protect them from dead at his feet.

**A/N: so yeah, that was it. A little darker than I usually write, but it is what it is. Review, tell me what's bad, what's not, and if you like it I'll try to get another one-shot out.**


	2. Joseph

**A/N: **So, here's a little shorty to add to the collection, tell me what you think, do you like this kind of writing? Would you prefer a lighter tone? Wheat or rye? orange or Yellow?

For god sake, review. I'm dying here.

"Joseph, can you at least tell me why?" she said, fretting about her son like the mother of a litter of two, swiping off miniscule bits of dirt on the uniform he wore.

They were standing next to the truck in the parking lot, partly because he couldn't stand his mother walking him to the Jacinto train stop like a six year old, and partly because his family couldn't bear to look at him, for fear of remembering his face when the big men in the too-small suits swept past.

"It's for the world, ma. 'Every man with the strength to carry a gun and point it at the enemy accepted!' 'For freedom!' They need me out there, stomping the Locust, and they'll pay. At the end of this war, the COG'll have so much money and food that Sera's tunnels will get filled right back up!"

The face of his mother, usually so kind and forgiving, was a mask of indifference. They both knew what would come of this talk, they'd had it a million times before.

She tugged out a wrinkle from his collar, frowning. "You'd do twice as good at the farm, where you're actually needed. Empty bellies stop men faster than a line full'a Locust, I'll tell you."

Joseph grasped his mother by the arms, kissed her on her wrinkled forehead, and smiled at her. "First long leave I get, I'll come home and work the fields. I promise."

He picked up his duffel bag, hefting hundreds of pounds onto his shoulder in one smooth motion, hugged his mother one last time with one arm, and pulled down his beret.

When he boarded the train, looking out the window, he could see his mother wave one frail arm to him, before the train lurched with frightening speed to the rest of his life.

**A/N: **so, yes. Short. I've been writing vignettes for a few weeks, so this is all I could do. Thanks for reading, review!


	3. Richard Bowense

**A/N:** So here I am, encouraged by a nice review, and hopefully getting more!

Private Richard Bowense, Rifleman corp.

Station: observation post 24, three clicks S,S,S,SW,W of Jacinto.

Subject: Radio transcript #6 before radio silence.

"Goddamnit Lee, I've been stuck in this shithole for three months, and the only interesting thing out here besides my fat ass is the squirrel that's chewing on it. Send me something, anything. Even that weird-ass comic you got circulating up at HQ."

"I am unable to fulfill your request, seeing as it's a waste of valuable supplies-"

"Jesus Carmichael, one goddamn porno mag-"

"Even one 'Goddamn porno mag' to satisfy your 'fat ass' would be a waste. It would mean I'd have to re-route Chin off his monthly schedule, weigh down his P.O.S. van with all the supplies you'd need at the end of the month at a totally unorthodox time, waste fuel, manpower, and get Chin pissed off at me. Not to mention the explanation I'd have to give Dorothy. 'Oh Sergeant Lee, what's with Chin's new route. Porn? Interesting. Private Dumbshit, you're now going to the front lines to fight with the brave men of Delta squad. You might even meet Cole Train, how about that? Maybe he'll sign your Lancer.'"

"Fine, be an ass. When I die at the ripe old age of nine-hundred and six, I'll have you to blame for years of sitting here, doing _absolutely nothing._"

"Better than the report of having Chin find your corpse, dried out and crusty. He'll come back, sobbing. I can imagine his horrified face, crumpled in disgust and anguish. 'Lee, he-he, he killed himself… by masturbating. I found his dick, torn off in one hand and a moldy magazine in the other.'"

"Fuck you, lee."

Transcript #12

"Lee, come in. Lee? You there?"

"Here, retard. What's up."

"I'm seeing a few seismic tremors, there might be a few little shakes near Jacinto, nothing the bedrock can't handle. Just thought you would want to know."

"Okay, would you like me to check under the bed for the monsters you're imagining?"

"Bowense out."

Transcript # 13

"Lee, come in."

"Lee here."

"Along with Dorothy?"

"Shut up and report, Private."

"Those tremors? They haven't stopped. They go on for hours, pause for eight, then go on, getting bigger and bigger."

"Thank you for your report."

"Private Richard Bowense out."

Transcript #15

"Bowense, I'm considering getting you out of there, just because it would get you away from the radio. What do you want _now?_"

"This fucking tower is shaking. I swear to god, I'm looking at my coffee right now and the damn thing is rippling. Whatever's causing these shakes is getting closer, it's not natural."

"What, a giant worm has been working its way here since two weeks ago, and now it's making your tower shake? Get a grip man, Jacinto's country side's always been a little shaky. The plates will settle."

"I sure hope so."

Transcript #16

"Holy shit, Lee, it's here, swear to god, the trees are falling down, tell my wife I loved her, and, and, hell, fuck my kids, little shits couldn't tie their own goddamn shoes-"

"Bowense! Report!"

"…"

"Richard? Are you there? Please, if you're out there…"

"…."

"Goddamnit."

End Transcripts.

**A/N: **I don't know why, I just like writing dialogue. There'll probably be more of these in the future, unless someone tells me this was the shitiest thing they'd ever read. Then I'd _seriously consider_ not writing more.

Aw who am I kidding. It's the internet, nobody cares about the bad stuff! Otherwise, why is 4chan still up?

... Is it?


	4. Freshmeat

**A/N: Hey, remember me? No? Not suprised, really. Haven't gotten a single hit in a week. Whateves, I'm posting this, in the hopes that somebody (You know who you are, you awesome reviewer you) will read it.**

**So, here is Freshmeat. I am particularly proud of him.**

The barrel they were all huddling around shown with a glow like the soul of a Jack-o-lantern, and the meager heat it gave off barely reached the shuddering gears inside their heavy armor. Human steam poured harshly out of the helmets most of them were wearing, the cold January air too brisk to have them off. They were all silent, listening to radio transmissions from their earpieces.

"How do they do it?" Asked one of the smaller gears in a quiet voice, the noise carrying through the helmets to the rest of the squad, not a peep coming out of the mouthpiece. His armor was spotless and the lancer on his back seemed to have come straight off the line. Private Freshmeat was the moniker he currently bore, but he was sure that it would change to something along the lines of "Corporal Dipshit" over the course of the month.

"Who, Delta squad?" Said a scarecrow in armor, tall and thin enough to get stuffed through a doggy-door. He had a sniper rifle across his knees, and his head was constantly swiveling, surveying the suroundings in a specialized helmet with wider goggles shaped like a visor.

"Yeah." Private Freshmeat said. "In oiling camp-"

A stocky gear with armor covered in bullet holes turned (quietly of course, some people still didn't believe that the Krill were gone forever) and hissed at the private. "Jesus Christ, Freshmeat, call it boot camp. You'll make the COG seem like a bunch of queers getting each other lubed up in preparation for the Locust-assfucking."

"_in boot camp," _Freshmeat hissed back irritably, "the first thing the sergeants drill into you is to never let your emotions take over. They tell you to think you're a machine. Don't feel, sense. Understand. React. Rage is not your master. The second you lose your cool, you lose your observation skills, and then the Locust will burrow up behind you when you're not looking and turn you into grub-food."

"Yeah, so?" asked the scarecrow.

"When I saw Delta going at the Locust, they were yelling and screaming, taking careless risks. Dom Santiago was running up to grubs and sawing them in half. Marcus Fenix popped up from behind cover and sprayed grubs with a shotgun. Cole Train took on entire squads of Locust by himself. It seems like these guys are testosterone filled risk-takers, not rational and cool machines."

The scarecrow pulled off his helmet, and a practically emaciated skull appeared, framed by limp blond hair. He attached his longshot to his back, then rummaged around in his helmet before finding a cigarette, lit it, and set his helmet on the ground.

"Tinydick," He whispered into his headpiece with a glance at the Private, and let out a dragons breath. "You have no idea what the war's about. You wanna know how Delta Get's Shit Done? You wanna know how they killed a giant worm_ from the inside?_How they destroyed the Krill breeding grounds? How they killed RAAM?" He chuckled. "Let me give you a brief overview."

He took a deep drag, and resumed his diatrabe. "Delta's sergeant, Marcus Fenix, comes from a distinguished background. Rich parents, established (if minor at the start of the war) military career, and sentenced to prison for disobeying a dick-order. He has been in pretty much every major operation since the Pendulum wars.

"Dominic Santiago, commando since he was eighteen, Emergence war veteran. His wife and family are all dead, killed by the Locust. Been fighting for his family and himself the minute he dropped out of high school.

"Augustus Cole, AKA Cole Train, established body-crusher in his thrashball career. He dominated the circuits when they were still around, and ran circles around entire teams. Been fighting ever since he got the draft letter."

Scarecrow took another deep drag.

"How come these people can fight the war for decades and still be kicking ass?"

Tinydick was silent.

"It's because they _are _the war." Scarecrow said, waving his slowly shrinking ember. "They aren't humans. They aren't COG. They're Marcus, Dom, and Cole, fighting because they have nothing else. They don't know _why _they're not dead yet, so they go crazier and crazier with every near death experience, until getting eaten by giant worms becomes the norm. Killing massive Locust? Been there. Going to the center of the earth and capture Locust beasts and use them against the Horde? Hell, that's Saturday's. They produce the killing machine thought-process naturally, and that screaming and yelling that they do, those insane tactics, are the only things that keep them human."

They were silent, watching the fire in the barrel slowly eat up the timber they'd stuffed in it.

"Don't worry, kid." Said the hulk of a gear next to him. "The way the war is going, some idiot in High Command is gonna think it's a bright idea to have nuke everyone so that the locust can't fight us anymore, and you'll never have to see a grub again."

Tinydick sat dejected, and started seriously reconsidering his career choice.


	5. Terrance

**A/N: So yeah, back. Haven't been givin' much love, been listening to music-You guys should really check out a band called Russian Circles, they're hella tight. What, you want to read the fanfic, instead of reading my endless blatherings? Preposterous. Fine. I won't tell you about how this is a continuation of Joseph's history, and it might be it's own little vignette series. **

**See what happens when you're rude? You don't learn things.**

Joseph walked at an easy pace, slow enough to spot mines and rumbling ground, but fast enough to cover distances efficiently. His squad mates in front of him walked at the same pace, constantly surveying the surroundings, looking for shelter in the crumbling buildings around them.

He'd been with the cog for a few months now, and was enjoying every minute. Every grub killed was a monster that couldn't attack his family. Every emergence hole sealed up with a grenade was one less exit for the monstrosities. The commercials that went on the radio inspired him, and when he was sure the com was off he started laughing inside his helmet, giggling hysterically as Locust were mowed down by his bullets.

He was doing the job that needed to be done, and he was happy.

Their sergeant's voice invaded their helmets, his calm baritone making the speakers in the com vibrate. "Red house on the left. Joseph and Karkaroff, inside."

They went in efficiently, the training from boot camp still giving each of their moves the precision that comes only with yelling drill sergeants. Clearing the house quickly, they set up their lights (the worst way of dying in the night was getting chewed on by krill), and Josephs' sergeant ordered him on first watch.

Joseph boarded up the windows, locked the door, and stuck some wood in a oil drum. Lighting it with some gunpowder and a match (he was never much of a boy scout) he sat behind the door and stared at it, waiting for a Theron to burst through the door and staple him with explosive arrows. When Locust failed to attack, he started to look around. Filthy whitewash, ash and trash filled the room, reminding Joseph how deserted the city was.

He shifted position, and felt something poke him in the rear. Lifting a cheek, he felt around and found something rectangular, and pulled it out.

It was a book, but not one Jacob had ever seen. It was bound in metal, and had a cog tag engraved in the front.

Joseph opened it, and revealed starch-white paper perfectly preserved by the metal.

_Do you know what death smells like? No? I do. He smells like flowers. I can't tell you which kind (it's been so long since I could actually find a flower to smell), but I know for sure that's what it is. Or maybe it's flower scented detergent, or perfume. _

_Whatever it is, it stays in my nostrils. It invades them, making me relive every time I've seen that robed bastard. Sitting next to her, while she rasped in her final moments, that peculiar aroma rising from her sheets like her last breath. In the fields watching buddies get cut down, and just below the stench of blood, sweat and guts you can smell the flora, something just out of reach, unidentifiable._

_You can hear him. He has these boots, kinda like grubs boots, but quieter. Grubs stomp. He slithers in, the steel on his skull-crushers making the lightest whisper. When he leaves you hear him sigh like the back of the refrigerator; resigned, but not depressed. _

_Death might not smell the same to you. You might not even hear him. But if you do, for god sakes keep your head down. If you inexplicably smell muffins when you're in the middle of a firefight, **do not** pop your head up to see if the grubs have been replaced with the pastries your mom used to make. If you hear children's laughter, **do not** step out of cover to check. These are death's warnings. He's telling you "I'm here for your buddies, keep your head down and I won't have to get you too."_

_How do I know this? Why should you believe me? _

_Shut the fuck up. Do you know who I am? Do you even know how to fire that piece of shit you've got strapped to your back?_

_Take the advice of a gear who's been fighting a war you haven't even fully conceived of yet. Read my book, and understand the messages given to you within. If you find any copies of my book scattered around Sera, read them too, they might have information not stored in this one. They'll tell you things you'd never even thought about before. How to properly fire a gun, how to figure out if you're going to die from infection—everything your sarge couldn't find time to tell you. It's all there, along with some theories you might find interesting. _

_So go on, if you're reading this forward and the rest of the book is still there, take a peek. Don't worry, if you're squad leader is any good he's read it too. By the time I'm writing this, it's been circulated among the enlisted men three times._

_And do me a favor. Once you're promoted, as a squad leader, give this book to someone who needs it. That dumbass rook that can't tie his boots the right way. The struggling fat kid (does Sera even have fat people these days?), the fourteen year old with illusions of glory. Make them read it. _

_Are you still having doubts? You think you can do better, following the C.O.G.'s advice? Your squad mates? Fine. But don't throw away this book. I beg of you, on hands and knees, give this to someone else. Chuck it at their head if you have to, but **do not** break this chain of information. _

_The print shop we're in won't survive another raid, right now it's just me and Terrance rolling off copies and I'm pretty sure this will be the last print before we've gotta scoot. So unless we find another abandoned newspaper shop, these dozen books that we're printing are going to be the last._

_So don't waste the efforts of two retired gears. Pay attention. Read, discover. For god sakes learn, and hopefully you'll smell flowers out of armor._

_See you at Jacinto._

–Staff Sergeant Lawrence, Corporal Terrance.

Jacob rubbed his eyes. Retired gears? That sounds suspiciously like something people say when they're trying to differentiate from being a coward and being a smart ass, like "strategic retreat." Their retirement was probably something along the lines of "not-so-honorably discharged."

Something made Joseph's hand turn the page, and he got so engrossed he forgot to wake up the next two look-outs.

**A/N: So there it was. As always, review, and check out some of that awesome gears fanfiction (gears in therapy is the awesomest in the world) and I will see all forty three of you guys next time!**


End file.
